To Freedom and The Bloody Cruel World
by All-things
Summary: "All that mattered was the six foot wooden box that was now being covered with dirt, burying with it the last of his family." Minor Character Death. Un'betaed.


To Freedom and The Bloody Cruel World

~All-things~

Freedom.

Peter smiled probably the widest smile he's ever smiled.

_Freedom._

That word and its meaning had almost been lost to him, lost in the world of barbed wire fences and grey uniforms. Ever since his captivity five years ago, he had wished to taste it but had never been able to. First it was because he couldn't escape and then it was because he wouldn't escape. But now. . .to breathe in the smell of salty air was like waking up to find your wish came true. He was going _home._

The waves of the English Channel rocked the ferry back and forth. The wind whipped across his face and in his hair. The sun shined in all its glory down on the solders of war.

Peter didn't just know he was free and that the war was over, he _felt_ free. Leaning on the railing, he turned to observe his friends. Louie gave him a teasing look, but he paid the little Frenchman no mind. He knew he was grinning like a ruddy idiot but he didn't care. You didn't feel the things he was feeling without expressing your joy somehow. He was just glad that he wasn't crying like Carter. Not that he would _ever_ tease the young American about it – well, maybe a little – but Peter did have his dignity. Besides, Louie was just being a hypocrite. He was smiling just as big as Peter and the rest of the fellas were.

Turning back to the channel, Peter almost laughed out of pure joy. Here he was. Standing on a ferry heading home surrounded by the closest friends he's ever had. He looked out over the rolling waves. He'd always thought of the sea as a symbol of freedom. It was fitting that it would be the thing taking him home.

To England. His land.

To London. His home.

To Mavis. His sister.

_To freedom._

* * *

Pain crushed his chest making it hard to breathe in and out. . . .in and out. This pain, this was the kind if pain that Peter hated most. Not physical pain, not the kind you get from falling out of an apple tree or when you suddenly found yourself ruddy bleeding on the ground. No, this kind of agony was the worst of all. It was heartache.

In and out, he had to remember to breathe. It was hard. His chest ached. It felt like his heart had broken and left a bleeding whole where it should have been. The lump in his throat was large and caught every time he tried to speak. So eventually he stopped trying to speak.

With shaking hands, Peter gently, with the help of others, lowered the wooden box into the ground. He hadn't had enough money to buy a proper coffin. But then Mavis always did prefer the simple things.

The cruel world.

The. Bloody. Cruel. World.

In and out, he shouldn't have to remember something so simple.

Why? Why had this happened to him? What had he done to deserve this? What had he done to deserve being set free only to have to bury his baby sister? What had he done?

The war was _over_. Didn't that mean that the pain was supposed to be over? Didn't that mean that he could come home and be happy again? Freedom meant joy, didn't it? _Didn't it?_ He'd dreamed of freedom. He'd dreamed of coming home. He'd _dreamed_ of seeing Mavis, of holding her in his arms and saying, finally saying, _"I'm 'ome."_ London was supposed to be safe. London _was_ safe. The war had nothing to do with the car that had hit Mavis. Did it? Maybe it did. Maybe the man driving the car that had ended his sister's life had seen horrors he wasn't prepared to see, that he didn't _want_ to see. Maybe the war had been too much for him. Maybe whiskey had been the only escape from his own hell. But in the end that man's escape hadn't really been an escape at all. It had only produced the horror he had wished to hide from. Death and destruction was fresh in the city. Buildings were gone and the death count was uncertain. But honestly, all that didn't matter to Peter at the moment.

All that mattered was the six foot wooden box that was now being covered with dirt, burying with it the last of his family.

In and out, remember, in and out.

He felt the weight and warmth of a hand on his shoulder but he didn't turn to see who it was. He knew it was one of his friends, probably Kinch judging by the size of the hand. It had been good to see his friend even though it was Kinch who had delivered the news that Peter was now burying in the ground. Mavis was dead. Killed in a car accident. Death was instantaneous. At least she didn't feel any pain.

In and out. Just remember to breathe.

"Newkirk," a voice said, Hogan's voice, his governor. "Newkirk, I'm sorry."

Then suddenly, Peter noticed that it was done. The grave had been filled and Mavis was now, truly buried. She was laid to rest. She needed the rest. In her letters she would tell him of the stress she felt while living in London. When would the next air raid come? Would she live through it? Would it ever be over? Would she ever stop being afraid? Those questions had made Peter's heart ache with the need to protect his baby sister. He'd been there for her their entire childhood and he knew she'd been somewhat lost without him. She'd said so herself. Now…now it was Peter who was lost. It was like he was floating out to the ocean, floating farther and farther from shore. Adrift in the agony of lost loved ones. The sea was his only companion and it was the sea that would eventually kill him. He so desperately had wanted the world to go back to the way it had been before the war but now that was impossible. Maybe it had always been impossible. Maybe this was all there was. Pain and confusion and anger. Maybe the world was nothing but heartache. Dealing humans the short end of the stick. Throwing them stones while they drowned. Drowned in their sorrow. Maybe he had been mistaken from the very beginning. Life can't get better. Like his father said. _"This is it, lad. Take a good, long look at me. Take a good, long look at your future. Years from now, you'll be me. A drunken, broken man with nothin'. Nothin' but misery."_ It was something he would say after he beat Peter. It was something he had always said when he was drunk.

It was something that Peter had never been more determined to prove wrong.

But that was history and history always repeated itself. There were no ifs, only whens. Peter should have listen to his da when was younger. He should have. . . .

"_Pierre."_

It was said so softly, so _gently_, that it made Peter turned. He turned away from the fresh grave of his sister to meet the gaze of two chocolate brown eyes. He could see the sadness in Louie's eyes. The pain the Frenchman felt on his behalf. The pain Peter hoped his little mate would never have to feel but knows already has.

Peter didn't say anything. He didn't dare voice his anguish. But as it turned out, he didn't need to. Somehow, Louie knew. Somehow, he had read the emotions in Peter's eyes and saw the real reason Peter didn't speak.

"_Mon ami,_ it is not the end of the world."

And just like that. . .something broke. Like a dam crumbling under the weight of too much water, the first tear trickled down Peter's check. He didn't sob. His breath didn't hitch. He just looked at his friends – people with whom he had been through so much – and let the silent tears make their path to the ground. It was a quiet release of his pain.

Then he turned back to the grave and focused on breathing. Breathing was a symbol of life. Of life moving on. If you didn't breathe the world seemed to stop. But if you kept breathing, the world kept spinning. If you kept breathing. . . .it was a sign of living.

Remember. In and out.

Just breathe in and out.

The End


End file.
